The Long Way Round
by arizonasunset79
Summary: The Tenth Doctor almost loses someone very dear to him, and this time, it's not Rose. Someone who he'd shared a much deeper, turbulent relationship since their days on Gallifrey. So when he gets the chance to save him, he grabs it, and never lets go. And the love in between them isn't gone, it's never gone. Doctor/Master (sort of a season rewrite?)


**A/N**: Hey! Another DW fic. First time in AGES since I've posted a story here. A few things you need to know:

Firstly, this contains slash - Doctor/Master, be warned. Slash and the regular stuff but definitely no explicitly sexual scenes because I don't do that. But keeping this rated T to be safe. This is set after/or at EoT. The ending bit, with Simm!Master sacrificing his life for Ten's. *cries* Also: the part where wilfred gets stuck in a little deadly booth: Ten later actually goes to help Wilfred, and unfortunately absorbs the radiation, because a malfunction causes wilfred to remain stuck inside one booth and radiation to flood out from the other now open booth, severely damaging his body (and triggering regeneration). This means our dear protagonist is still headed for death and wasn't able to help Wilfred. *cries again*

Reviews are very much appreciated!

* * *

Palms flat on the cold and concrete ground, he hunched his body over, mind twisted in agony and confusion and pain. Sweat mixed with salty warm tears flowed freely down his bruised and wearied face, joining the blood that leaked doggedly from his war-ridden battlescars. He struggled to pull his body up again but tiredness defeated him and he fell with a thud, exhausted and drained, to the extent blackness was beginning to creep in from the corners of his vision, swirling abysses that threatened lack of conciousness. Sweet, blissful lack of conciousness.

But his heart was too burdened with the shock of the past few minutes and he was unbelieving. Unbelieving of the events that had transpired. Then slowly it began to sink in, like a leaden arrow buried thickly in the pits of his stomach, and he gasped. Realisation flooded the gates of his mind and agony was in overdrive. It was much like accidently hurting yourself, feeling virtually nothing for the first split second, and then being overwhelmed in the sudden wave of shocking electricity of pain that you didn't see coming. Except this wound was in the heart; no medicine could heal it, or make the Master come back.

The Doctor screamed.

An inhumane sound drowned in sorrow infused with feeling of loss permeated the main hall of the almost empty Naismith mansion. It reverbated against the walls and echoed back to the Doctor's own ears, only to further multiply his pain. He never knew he was capable of such a sound.

Wilfred swallowed, fixated on the Doctor's collapsed form. It was a major shock, to see his incredible friend, saviour of galaxies and rescuer of civilisations, respected by many, to be reduced to defeat, a helpless, dying thing. The Doctor's cry, when which reached his eardrums, caused his every bone to shudder in its unfamiliarity, but mostly, the tremendous sorrow it carried. He stood there, dead still.

He pressed his cold and clammy face against the smooth glass of the booth, tiny shiverings causing the surface to tremble. He watched as the Doctor attempted to pick himself up from the floor, holding his breath.

The Doctor stared blankly at where Rassilon and the other time lords had stood just moments before. His emotions summoned tears which refused to fall. In his mind's eye he remembered the hoodie clad figure standing metres away. Just seconds ago he was alive and fighting, bodily present in front of him, furiously shooting bolts of his hissing blue life force at the ex-time lord president, also fueled with vengeance, angry and dangerous, but alive.

And now he wasn't. The Doctor stumbled forward blindly, desperate and about to grab the (now nonexistent) Master and feel, feel between his fingers the rough black fabric of his hoodie, pull him close and keep him _safe_, but they closed around air. Harsh, my friend. Confirmation that he was now trapped indefinitely in the time lock, unreachable by the Doctor through all means. _Harsh._

Once again great sobs ricocheted through his body, burning his throat, leaving him gasping for oxygen that he could not breathe for. The sacrifice made on his behalf came as a surprise to the Doctor, but it was wrong to say that the idea was completely preposterous. However, he'd never imagined it would unfold in this manner - a scenario in which the roles were reversed was what had once traversed his mind, and he would've done it for the Master, in two heartbeats. Unfortunately this was the ticket life offered (more like forced down his bruised and bleeding throat) and the Doctor was treated to a front seat show of the death of his best enemy and oldest friend.

_love._

Again sobs closed his throat and breathing became tiring. He closed his eyes and let the black spots swim in and devour his conciousness.

* * *

When he awoke he was still lying on the hard ground, hands in fists up in his hair. He relaxed clenched teeth he didn't know he'd been clenching all the while. His torn and battered body ached and pulsed, signs that a regenerative process was imminent. Picking himself up he dragged his body back toward the TARDIS, blocking out Wilfred's increasingly agitated pleas for rescue. His mind was still blanketed in numbness, and perhaps he found that temporary unfeeling preferential. The TARDIS opened her doors without being asked, and dimmed the interior lights to a less blinding intensity, sensing the Doctor's current state of emotion. the second they closed, he fell to the floor, eyes screwed shut. He forced his mind to wake up and work. Formulate a plan. Save the world. The Doctor inhaled and exhaled slowly, clearing mental debris. As he lay on the glass floors, thinking gradually became less difficult and more effective, and a small seed of an idea began to germinate. After a short peripd of resting, he pulled himself up. The Doctor weakly placed a hand on the console, which was warm and soothing under his touch. One last comfort, albeit a small one.

"I'm dying."

The TARDIS hummed quietly in response, an attempt to calm his racing hearts. The Doctor smiled tiredly, eyes shining with tears. He stroked the glowing console. "One last trip eh, old girl?"

The fuzziness in his head began to bloom, and he felt warm energy pump through his veins, a golden yellow radiating from under the skin. He raised his hand to his face and looked at it sadly. So this was what he deserved.

Four knocks which turned out to be Wilfred's, all along, a invitation to his death. Of course he wasn't ready. He'd screamed and cried and ranted about the unfairness of the situation. But in the end, he was still going to die. And worse, the Master was dead. Gone.

The latter thought caused him to momentarily forget about his impending death, and he gripped the TARDIS handrails tightly. The idea forming in his head was taking shape. Time lords were known to have telekinetic links with other time lords close to them that were notoriously difficult to break. Not surprisingly, even after all those centuries of fighting across the cosmos with the Master, he still retained that mental bond that was created eons ago back when they were students at the Academy. If he could somehow harness the intensity of that memory, that connection, he could pull him back into existence...

He rummaged through the drawers of his mind, and found the well-worn one that contained his telekinetic link with the Master. Focusing all of his psychic energy on reopening that link, he squeezed his eyes shut and pulled. Hard. He called out to the Master, growing increasingly desperate with every shout.

All this while, he felt his body thrum with energy, the cells inside bursting and deforming with spirals of heat, fire that could only spread up and up. The flames tickled at his fingers and soon they began to flare out in a butterfly wing of gold. He felt in on his face too, a burning, painful and zealous implosion. Tissues destroying themselves. Every atom being rewritten, old scripts ripping up and sparking in the kindling.

The Doctor pulled himself into a concentration he'd never felt before, every brain cell working at breakneck speed to recompose a memory of the Master, making him real in his mind. Focusing on his every feature, every personality trait, and every word he'd ever said to the Doctor made his neurons fire like mad, burning up in his mental battle.

_Master!_

Oh, if this worked...

_Master! I -_

Only a few seconds left. He had to be quick. In his fervour he ran round the console, grabbed at levers and set coordinates for a place he knew didn't exist anymore, not after the horrors of the Time War, the planet which usually inspired nostalgia and regret, now trapped in a time lock. One last lever was yanked and the TARDIS was set for the location of Gallifrey.

In other words, the location of the Master.

_I've got to time it right time it right time it..._

As the TARDIS whizzed through the time vortex, hurtling towards the time lock, the Doctor's telekinetic efforts went into full swing. His every cell called out the Master's name.

With one final scream, regeneration energy burst forth from his body in the peak of the process in a fountain of blinding light. Simultaneously, the TARDIS slammed through the walls of the time lock, the Doctor channelling his regeneration energy and psychic beams toward the core of the lock, where the Master was.

_NOW!_

Everything exploded into whiteness.

* * *

The heat was unbearable. Fire in front, behind him, everywhere, made the air shimmer in rippling waves. Soon his ears were alerted to a fairly loud sound around him - a commotion of sorts -

An explosion ripped through the air and he found himself hugging the ground metres away. That shook him out of his reverie. Suddenly the muffled cocamphony boomed into painful high definition screaming. Children, adults running past him, blindly stepping over his splayed body, almost trampling him. A blur of bodies sprinted past. Shouting and pushing and sobbing filled the air. Through the screams he could vaguely make out weak cries of help, coming from somewhere near his right.

He rubbed his eyes, still in a state of confusion, when another explosion thundered perilously close. Some of the sparks must've hit fuel... his brain worked groggily.

Only when someone's foot shot into his stomach in the rush

_OH GOD HELP ME PLEASE_

he shouted in pain and grabbed his midsection. His mind was alive with the telekinetic feedback from the mess around him. Pleas for help and children crying. A part of his brain that hadn't been used in so, so long, it'd grown rusty with no other time lords to communicate with.

_Wait, what?_

Then he felt it, and reeled back with the surprise. He was here.

_I'm here._

It was the gravity. The subtle gravity change gave it away. And he wasn't here on just any old day.

The Doctor lay on Gallifrey during the final days of the Great Time War.


End file.
